270 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



are trotted up and down between rows of men away from 

 the auctioneer and back again, their price in guineas 

 mingh'ng with the statement that they are real workers, 

 while a small boy hustles them with whip and shout from 

 behind, and a big stiff man leads them and, to turn them 

 at the end of the run, shoves his broad back into their 

 withers. The Irish dealers traffic apart and try to sell 

 without auction. Their horses and ponies, braided with 

 primrose and scarlet, stand in a quiet row. Suddenly a 

 boy leads out one on a halter, a hard, plump, small-headed 

 beast bucking madly, and makes it circle rapidly about 

 him, stopping it abruptly and starting it again, with a stiff 

 pink flag which he flaps in its face or pokes into its ribs; 

 if the beast refuses he raises a high loud " whoo-hoop " 

 and curses or growls like an animal. For perhaps five 

 minutes this goes on, the boy never abating his oaths and 

 growls and whoops and flirtings of the pink flag. The 

 horse is led back; a muttering calm follows; another horse 

 is led out. Here and there are groups of cart-mares with 

 huge pedestalled feet and their colts, or of men bending 

 forward over long ash-sticks and talking in low tones. 

 Horses race or walk or are backed into the crowd. Droves 

 of bullocks are driven through the furze. Rows of bulls, 

 sweating but silent and quiet, bow their heads and wait 

 as on a frieze. Again the pink flags are flourished, and 

 the dealer catches a horsy stranger by the arm and 

 whispers and shows him the mare's teeth. This dealer 

 is a big Irishman with flattened face and snaky nose, his 

 voice deep and laughing. He smiles continually, but 

 when he sees a possible buyer he puts on an artful expres- 

 sion so transparent that his merry face shines clearly 

 underneath and remains the same in triumph or rebuke — 



